17
* * *
For Rabalyn the night was spent in a state of panic. He sat quietly as the others discussed the fight that would come tomorrow. His hands were trembling, and he clasped them together tightly, so that Druss would not see he was frightened. The attack by the beasts on the camp had been sudden, and he had reacted well. Druss had praised him for his courage. But now, sitting waiting to be attacked, he found his stomach churning. He saw Diagoras and Skilgannon joking together by the ledge, and then watched as Druss picked up the struggling Drenai officer and dangled him over the edge. These men had no fear.
Rabalyn had no understanding of military tactics, and he had listened to Brother Lantern outline the plan of attack and it seemed so perilous. Yet no one else had pointed this out, and he felt, perhaps, that his own lack of knowledge was preventing him from seeing just what a fine plan it was. So he said nothing.
The Nadir would ride up the mountain road, past where Diagoras and the brothers were hiding in a shallow fissure. Then Brother Lantern and Druss would attack them from the front. He and Garianne would shoot arrows at the riders from the shelter of a stand of boulders above the road. Once Brother Lantern and Druss were engaged, Diagoras and the twins would rush in from behind. Apparently these five fighters would then overpower twenty or so savage tribesmen. It made no sense to Rabalyn. Would the Nadir not ride over the men attacking them on foot? Would they not be trampled to death?
Rabalyn had been afraid to ask these questions.
All he knew now was that this might be his last night alive, and he found himself staring longingly at the beauty of the night sky, wishing that he could sprout wings and fly away from his fears.
Druss had walked back to the rock wall, stretched himself out, and fallen asleep. It was incomprehensible to Rabalyn that a man facing a battle could just sleep. He found himself thinking of Aunt Athyla, and the little house back in the village. He would willingly have given ten years of his life to be back at home, worrying about nothing more than a scolding from Old Labbers for not doing his homework. Instead he had a sword belted at his side and a curved bow with a quiver of black-feathered arrows.
Time drifted by, and the fear did not subside. It swelled in his belly, causing the trembling to worsen. Brother Lantern came back with Diagoras, and they woke Druss. The old man sat up and winced. Rabalyn saw him rubbing at his left arm. His face seemed sunken and gray. Then the brothers approached. Once again Nian was holding to the sash at Jared’s belt.
“Are we going to fight now?” asked Nian.
“Soon. But we must be quiet,” answered Jared, patting his brother on the shoulder.
Diagoras and the twins left the company then, walking back down the road and out of sight. Brother Lantern came and knelt beside Rabalyn. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Good,” lied Rabalyn, not wishing to shame himself by admitting his terror. Brother Lantern looked at him closely.
“Follow me. I’ll show you where I want you to shoot from.”
Rabalyn pushed himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady. As he followed Brother Lantern Druss called out to him. “You’ve forgotten the bow, lad.” Blushing with embarrassment, Rabalyn swept up the bow and the quiver and ran to catch Brother Lantern. They walked to the site of a recent landslide. Several huge boulders had fallen across the road. Brother Lantern scrambled up the first, hauling Rabalyn up behind him. “There is good cover here, Rabalyn. Do not show yourself too often. Shoot when you can, then duck back.”
“Where will Garianne be?”
“She’ll be on the ground below you. She is a better shot.” He smiled. “And less likely to send an arrow through one of us. Keep your shafts aimed at the center of the riders.”
“The center. Yes.”
“Are you frightened?”
“No. I am fine.”
“It is not a crime to be frightened, Rabalyn. I am frightened. Diagoras is frightened. Anyone with any intelligence would be frightened. Fear is necessary. It is there to keep us alive, to warn us to avoid danger. The greatest instinct we have is for self-preservation. Every ounce of that instinct is telling us that it would be safer to run than to stay.”
“Then why don’t we run?” asked Rabalyn, with more feeling than he intended.
“Because it would only save us today. Tomorrow the enemy would still be coming, and the terrain would be more suitable for them than for us. So here we stand. Here we fight.”
“We could die here,” said Rabalyn, miserably.
“Yes, we could die. Some of us may anyway. Keep yourself safe here. Do not venture down for any reason. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Is Druss all right?”
Brother Lantern looked away. “I am worried about him. Something is troubling him. I cannot worry about that now. The Nadir will be here soon, and I must ride to meet them.”
“I thought you were going to stand with Druss.”
“I will. Try not to shoot me as I ride back.”
Brother Lantern climbed down the boulders, leaping the last few feet to the ground. Garianne was waiting at the bottom, her crossbow hanging from her belt, a Nadir bow in her hands. Rabalyn heard Brother Lantern speak to her. “Protect Old Uncle,” he said.
Then he was gone. Moments later he rode by them.
The dawn was breaking.
Skilgannon rode back along the rocky road, moving past the fissure in which Diagoras, Jared, and Nian were hidden. As he did so Nian called out. “There’s Skilgannon! Hello!” As he rode on Skilgannon heard Jared telling his brother to keep quiet. Anger flared fleetingly in his heart, and then the dark humor of the situation relaxed him. Diagoras was right. A simpleton, a mad woman, and a frightened boy made up half of Skilgannon’s army. Then there was Druss. Old and weary. Somewhere the old gods were laughing.
He slowed his horse on a steep downward stretch, then halted him where the road widened. Looking down over the edge, he could see the Nadir on a bend of the road far below. There were only nineteen of them. This was a small relief. The men he wounded must have been more badly hurt than he had guessed.
Lifitng the stolen Nadir bow from his saddle horn, he notched an arrow. It was unlikely that he would cause any damage from this range, but he wanted them to know he was there. Drawing back the string, he let fly. The arrow flew straight, but his aim was faulty. It struck the road just ahead of the lead rider. The Nadir drew rein and glanced up just as Skilgannon loosed a second shaft. This also missed. “Good morning, my children,” he called down. Several of the riders drew their own bows, sending black shafts hissing toward him. The elevation made the range too great, the arrows falling short. “You need to come closer,” he shouted. “Come up here.” He sent another arrow hissing through the air. This one sliced through a warrior’s forearm. The Nadir heeled their mounts and galloped toward the sharp bend in the road that would bring them to him.
He waited calmly, another arrow notched. He was getting used to the bow now. It was far more powerful than he had first supposed. As the Nadir rounded the bend he sent a shaft at the lead warrior. The man tried to swerve his mount, but only succeeded in making it rear. The arrow sliced into the pony’s throat and it fell.
Swinging the gelding, Skilgannon rode up the road, the Nadir close behind. Arrows flew by him. Up ahead he could see Druss standing, ax in hand. Then Garianne stepped into sight. She shot an arrow that flew past Skilgannon. Then another. Coming alongside Druss he threw himself from the saddle, slapping the gelding on the rump and sending him running back along the trail. Drawing both swords he turned and ran at the oncoming tribesmen. An arrow tore through the collar of his jerkin, slicing the skin. Druss bellowed a war cry and charged into the Nadir, his ax cleaving through a man’s chest, catapulting him from the saddle. Skilgannon plunged his sword through the belly of another. The Nadir threw aside their bows and grabbed for their swords. Skilgannon cut and thrust. A pony swung into him, hurling him from his feet,
but he came up fast. Druss hammered his ax into another warrior. Skilgannon heard loud shouts coming from behind the milling Nadir horsemen and knew that Diagoras and the others had attacked from the rear. The Nadir tried to reform, but the new attack unnerved some of the ponies, which, in trying to escape, came too close to the edge. Four Nadir horsemen plunged over the side. Some of the tribesmen jumped from their saddles and began to fight on foot. Skilgannon killed one with a reverse cut across his throat. A second leapt in. An arrow appeared in his chest and he stopped in his tracks, before dropping to his knees. Three horsemen rode at Druss. Skilgannon saw the old warrior stagger as he waited to meet them. Then he fell to his knees. The riders thundered past him toward Garianne.
She shot the first. Then the other two were on her. One threw himself from his mount. He and Garianne went down together. Skilgannon wanted to go to her aid, but he was himself now being attacked. Blocking wild cuts and slashes from two tribesmen, he backed away—then leapt forward and to the right. The Sword of Day clove through the first Nadir’s breastbone, while the Sword of Night blocked an overhand cut from the second warrior. The first Nadir went down, his hands grabbing at the sword impaling him, trying to drag Skilgannon down with him. Releasing his grip on the hilt, Skilgannon parried a fresh attack from the second man, then killed him with a riposte that opened his throat. Druss had forced himself to his feet and was staggering back toward Garianne.
Skilgannon killed another warrior, then spun to follow the axman. Garianne was lying on the ground. Beside her was the still form of Rabalyn, his tunic covered in blood. Three dead Nadir were close by.
Skilgannon swore, then turned back to the fight.
Only there was no fight.
Diagoras and the brothers were walking toward him, past the bodies of twelve Nadir warriors. There was blood flowing from a cut on Diagoras’s brow. Jared was wounded in the arm. Nian was untouched.
Skilgannon ran back to where Druss was kneeling by the boy. The axman’s face was gray, his eyes sunken. He looked in pain and his breathing was ragged. “Couldn’t . . . get . . . to them,” he said. Skilgannon knelt by Garianne. She had a lump on her temple, but her pulse was strong. Rabalyn had been stabbed in the chest. Sheathing his sword, Skilgannon pulled open Rabalyn’s tunic. The wound was deep, and blood was bubbling from it. Diagoras came alongside.
“Pierced his lung,” he said. “Lets get him out of the sun.”
Jared and Diagoras lifted the boy, while Nian knelt down beside Garianne. Stroking her face, the simpleton called her name. “Is she sleeping?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Skilgannon. “Carry her back into the cave. We’ll wake her then.” But Nian saw his brother move away carrying Rabalyn. He cried out.
“Wait for me, Jared!” his voice panicky. Dropping his sword he ran to Jared and took hold of the sash at his brother’s belt. Skilgannon looked at Druss, who was now sitting on the roadside.
“What happened?” asked Skilgannon.
“Pain . . . in the chest. Like there’s a bull sitting on it. I’ll be all right. Just need to rest awhile.”
“Is there pain in your left arm?”
“Its been cramping lately. I’m feeling better already. Just give me a moment.”
Skilgannon lifted Garianne and carried her back to the shallow cave, laying her down in the shade. Despite the blood still flowing from the cut to his head, Diagoras was working on the wound to the boy’s chest. He and Jared had hauled Rabalyn into a sitting position. The lad was still unconscious, his face ashen gray. Jared was holding him upright.
Skilgannon walked back into the sunlight, retrieving the Sword of Day from the chest of the dead Nadir. Several of the ponies were still standing on the roadside. Two of them carried saddlebags. Skilgannon walked to the ponies, speaking softly. They were still skittish. Searching the saddlebags he found one contained an engraved silver flask. Uncorking it he sniffed the contents. Then he sipped it. It was fiery and hot. A spirit of some kind. He walked back to where Druss still sat. “This might help,” he said, offering the flask. Druss drank deeply.
“Long time since I’ve tasted this,” he said. “It’s called Lyrrd.” He drank again. “I couldn’t get to the boy in time,” he said. “I saw him jump down to help Garianne. He killed the first Nadir. Caught him by surprise. The second stabbed him. I got there too late. Will he live?”
“I don’t know. The wound is a bad one.” Druss winced and groaned. “Pain in the chest is getting worse.”
“It is a heart seizure,” said Skilgannon. “I have seen them before.”
“I know what it is!” snapped Druss. “It’s been coming on for weeks. I just didn’t want to accept it.”
“Let me help you into the cave.”
Druss shrugged off Skilgannon’s hand and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll rest awhile,” he said. He took two steps, then staggered. Skilgannon came alongside him. Reluctantly Druss accepted his help and together they entered the cave.
Diagoras approached Skilgannon. “I have sealed the boy’s wound, but he’s still bleeding inside. I don’t have the skill to heal him.”
“Let’s see to you,” said Skilgannon. Blood had drenched Diagoras’s tunic on the right side, and was still flowing from the deep cut on his head.
“It is not so bad,” Diagoras told him. “A little blood goes a long way. Most shallow wounds look worse than they are.”
Skilgannon smiled at him. Diagoras looked suddenly sheepish. “But then I suppose you already knew that, General.”
Diagoras opened his pouch and removed his crescent needle and a length of twine, handing them to Skilgannon. Then he sat down, allowing Skilgannon to examine the cut. “It extends into the hairline. That’s where most of the blood is coming from. I’ll need to shave the area around it.” Diagoras eased his hunting knife from its sheath.
Skilgannon took it. First he sliced away the long dark hair, leaving a stubbled area three inches long and two inches wide. The skin had split here, and there was some swelling. Skilgannon worked on the wound, needing to draw the skin tightly into place. It was not easy.
“Pull much harder and my ear will end up on top of my head,” complained Diagoras.
Jared walked out to join them. “Garianne is awake,” he said. “I think she is all right.” Then he gathered up his brother’s sword and returned to the cave.
“What’s wrong with Druss?” asked Diagoras, as Skilgannon completed the last stitch.
“A seizure. His heart all but gave out. He’s been suffering for some weeks, he said.”
Diagoras rose to his feet and walked out among the dead. Skilgannon followed him. “With a sick heart he killed five Nadir. Damn, but he is a phenomenon.”
“Six,” corrected Skilgannon. “He made it back to kill the man who stabbed Rabalyn.”
“That is one tough old man.”
“He will be a dead old man if we do not find the temple. I have seen these seizures before. His heart is barely holding out. That massive body needs a healthy heart to feed it. In the condition he’s in he’ll have another attack before long. He won’t survive it.”
“How far to this temple?”
“Khalid Khan says two days. But that was a man traveling across rough country on foot. With a wagon? I don’t know. Three perhaps.”
“The boy won’t last three days,” said Diagoras.
They heard the rumble of a wagon coming down the road. Skilgannon glanced up to see Khalid Khan driving it. Several of his men and two women were following behind. Skilgannon walked to meet him. “These women know wounds,” said Khalid Khan.
“My thanks to you.”
“Does the Silver Slayer live?”
“He does.”
“That is good to hear,” said the old man. “I had a bad feeling when he sent me away. Is he sick?”
“Yes.”
Khalid Khan nodded. “I will guide you to where I saw the temple. We must pray to the Source of All Things that it is there this time.”
Elanin had long given up hope of rescue. Even if Uncle Druss did find this fortress in the middle of the wilds the men here were of appalling savagery, Nadir warriors in clothes of stinking goatskin, and hard-eyed soldiers who stared at her with cold indifference, their voices harsh, their eyes cruel. Uncle Druss would not be able to take her away from them. A man who could bend horseshoes would be no match for these terrible warriors.
And then there was Ironmask.
He had not struck her again, for she was careful around him. He had beaten Mother, though. He had blackened her eyes and split her lip. There were bruises on her body. And he yelled at her, calling her a “useless sow” and a “stupid whore.”
Elanin sat in her room, high in the citadel. She had not seen Mother now for five days, nor been allowed out of the room. A cold-hearted Nadir woman brought her two meals a day and took away the chamber pots, emptying them and replacing them. Elanin no longer dreamed of being free. In the last two weeks she had developed a trembling in her hands and arms, and would spend much of the time finding places in which to hide. There were cupboards and spaces behind tall chests. Once she even found her way into a wine cellar and hid behind the barrels. Each time they found her, and now she was locked into a small room at the top of the citadel. The room was not large enough for a good hiding place. But she discovered that if she crawled into the closet and pulled shut the door, the darkness was welcoming and gave her a sense of protection. She would cower in this small place for hours. Then she began to pretend that this was all a terrible dream, and that if she tried hard enough she would wake up in her sunny room in Purdol. And Father would be sitting by the bed. The days drifted by, and her fantasies increased. She ate mechanically, then returned to her sanctuary.
Today Ironmask had come to her room, wrenching open the closet door and dragging her out into the light. Twisting his hands in her now greasy blond hair, he pulled back her head and stared into her face. “Not so proud now, are we?” he said. “Are you going to tell me you hate me?”
Elanin began to tremble, her head twitching. Ironmask laughed at her. “I want my mother,” she managed to say, tears spilling to her face.